


We'll Be Legendary

by Angelic_Hellraiser



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Love Poems, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9204728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelic_Hellraiser/pseuds/Angelic_Hellraiser
Summary: All my Dramione one-shots, ficlets and poems. (These are mostly warm-up pieces and such.)





	1. Blinded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Type: Poem

Limitless thought,

Evanescent voices.

They all beat the same,

Like a trembling heart…

Withering in a bone-white cage.

That’s how she saw him in that moment.

Flawed,

Infinite,

_Doomed._

He looked at her and she crumbled.


	2. One Moment of Existence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Type: Poem

In that final moment…

A face she knew,

A face she scorned—

He looked to her, pleading.

Could she deny that single moment,

That single eternity of understanding?

Blood and disaster,

Preconceptions fading—

That was how they remained.

That was how he died.


	3. Summer Phantom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Type: Drabble

She existed in glass, imprisoned as a silhouette of need. Yes, she wanted. It filled her until her skin might burst at the seams, eyes watering with it, lips wetted with it. She desired so deeply that her heart ached, swollen with it.

He didn’t understand this thing. This want. He only understood gratification. He couldn’t fathom the devastation of lingering without, to savor what little pleasure he gained only to have it ebb away. No. He was a selfish burst of fire, embellished as a falling star, dancing so brightly the world grew jealous.

Yes _want_.

Her glass reflected him, danced with him… adorned him in finite diamonds of light. It was beautiful. It was temporary. She reaped him as a summer phantom, melted free and cast long in her silhouette of desire. He engulfed her, sated her, left her wanting as he slowly flickered away.

_Yes, she wanted._


	4. Perhaps...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Type: Ficlet

A girl looked to the sky, violent in the death of the sun as it sank below the horizon, staining the world a vicious red. Dark and pregnant clouds promised rain. Thunder growled in the distance. She felt the ground tremble. It was cold, colder than she remembered. Stars flickered and wept in their frigid ocean of darkness above her, above the storm… above the war.

* * *

 

A boy looked to the same sky, the color reminding him of the blood christening the ground before him. Like choices, blood stained. Water could wash away that color, but the memory remained, deep beneath the flesh. It ran cold, like fear. Icy. Infinite. Final. The stars winked cruelly down at him, promising his death. He wished things could be different. He wished he’d chosen another path in this war…

* * *

Perhaps, in a different time, a different place, a boy could have recognized a better course. Perhaps, a girl could have shown him that he had a choice. Perhaps… a girl could have shown a boy his wings.  


	5. Even Winter Burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Type: Ficlet

She was a prophet of death, of darkness. In the depth of terrors and shadow, she walked beyond the wall. Her cinnamon curls caught in the chilling winds, her wild honey eyes dyed daylight crimson. She was a seer of frozen stars, of winter souls and empty revelations.

She found him in the ice and storm, crippled, bathed in his own pure blood, pale hair and maelstrom eyes cooling the heat of her skin, running her veins cold with hate. He was a ghost of the dead season, a lovely bite of poison beneath the leafless black trees and shapeless white of the storm. They reached for him—those black, starving skeletons—like terror, like night.

"Filthy." He spat, expressive lips trickling red.

She reached down to touch him, but he is too weak to flinch away. His skin was as the snow around him, frozen. "Are you afraid?"

His brows drew down over his eyes, forehead frosted with sweat. "No!" A choked growl.

She frowned and wiped the sweat away. "You lie."

"I… don't speak… to such filth!" his voice chattered with the sound of brittle teeth.

"But you do, pale lord. You do, for you have no other soul to share your passing." She leaned down closer to him, her body emanating heat, wild curls brushing his neck.

"I need no company." He hissed.

She smiled. "Perhaps, I do." Her breath was delightful as it washed over him, warming his cheeks, flushing them with life.

She was a kindling fire, not a flame, but the glorious blaze of sunrise. He inhaled her, savored her. She was the harvest, rich and bright, liquid and sweet.

"What is your name?" he asked, his tone still sharp.

She chuckled at that. "Hermione."

"A warm name. A name made of honey." he murmured. "Fitting."

"And what is yours, pale lord?"

"Draco."

"Fitting." She mirrored. "A harsh name. A name made of war."

His eyes flickered, the heaviness of death luring him to the darkness, to the forever sleep. "I hate your blood." He whispered. "I hate you even now."

"Yes." She said, still smiling. He was submerged in her heat, colored lovely shades of gold and red. "Hate cannot warm your heart, your magic. Winter is your season. Hate is your terror."

"Why do you speak to me?" he licked his lips, tasting her scent, relishing it.

"I have already told you, pale lord." She leaned close enough that he could see the strange amber patterns in her eyes. Halcyon pools of summer. Exquisite. "Should I leave you to your death then?"

"No." he coughed, surprised by his reply. "Stay."

She nodded, blinking curiously, slowly. Winter ice melted on her face and lashes. She glittered, blushing and vibrant in the colorless sunset, the looming darkness shrinking from her. "You want to kiss me, pale lord."

It was not a question.

He licked his bloody lips again, this time his tongue grazing her hovering mouth. She was so close to him, hot and provocative with her vitality. He wanted to fold into her, envelop her and taste her kindling breath.

"Yes." He said simply.

She smiled again, a flash of pretty white teeth and dancing eyes. "Enemies can burn as equally as any flame, pale lord. Perhaps, I can summon yours… one final time." Her fingers trail life back over his cold cheeks, igniting them. Then his lips, her fingertips smearing the blood there. "Even winter burns."

"Even winter dies." He murmured back, looking down from her eyes, beckoning her.

"Yes." She sighed, her voice laden with sorrow.

When her lips touched his, he reached for her, his wounded arm howling as he sealed her in a desperate embrace. She melted into him, livening his exhausted heart, and her hands cradled his face, soothing his soul. He lavished her mouth, exploring every contour, every taste. She was pure passion, a raging pyre, somewhere between the bliss of sleep and the agony of birth. Eternal.

Eventually, they parted.

He felt his eyes sting with tears. "I lied."

She placed a tender kiss on his forehead, her lips stained by his blood. "I know."

"I am afraid." His arms, so tired now, clung to her.

"I know…"

Something hot touched his cheek and he realized with shock… that she was weeping. Her eyes wavered and shimmered, his halcyon pools of summer. She kissed his mouth again and he tried to indulge her, but he was so very tired… so very cold.

"Hatred was your terror, my pale lord, but darkness does not last forever. I will remain with you." Her voice was deep and riddled with want.

He knew that want. He knew it well. And he was afraid, so very, very afraid. His eyes grew heavier. She was only a blur of red and warmth now, her scent all around him.

"You will be etched into the stars." She continued, her voice lesser, distant to him. "You will not die. I promise you. You will be forever."

He smiled weakly and she found herself enraptured. "I shared a kiss with my enemy tonight. It is enough."

"I am not your enemy." She replied back, kissing him one final time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I was inspired by Karliene's fan song The Red Woman. You can definitely pick up the Game of Thrones feel. LOL!


	6. This Means War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Type: One Shot

* * *

 

His face remains hidden, pale eyes merciless—merciless because there is no other choice. Black robes dance in the bitter wind, stygian shrouds of death. He was a boy once, a petulant, arrogant little boy. An innocent boy.

Blood smears his mask, dirty blood. The hands at his sides are clenching. Hands meant for murder, for choking the life from lesser creatures. But… those hands seek a tyrant’s throat tonight. 

He was to walk the path set for him, his destiny. A boy prince ignorant of a crown’s heaviness, of its thorns. Dressed in opulent wealth and beauty, skin the color of starlight and eyes the chaos of storms—this boy became a man, made ruthless by a father’s mistake, made cunning by a master’s tutelage.

But a master should beware, treating a dragon as a snake. A dragon is no mere snake, nor will he ever be. Foolish master of lowly slithering things. Dragons belong to the sky, to fire… and _thrones_ belong to dragons.

He leaps down, his cloak the beat of monstrous wings, and lands without a whisper. The thunder of battle echoes in the distance. Twilight swirls around him, a poisonous mist, and colors of green, red and yellow crackle at the walls behind him. Shouts. Wails. Death.

Dragons have no need to hide. He abandons his mask, listening as it clatters at his feet, a cumbersome thing, a thorny thing. Explosions of magic illuminate his face and the night sings, hypnotized by such fury, such zeal. The hard line of his nose cuts through the polished angles of his cheekbones, shadows thrown sharp against the right side of his face. His expressive lips are relaxed, slightly parted and tilted at their corners.

Fledgling dragons are deceptive creatures, reminiscent of their wingless worm-like cousins, but a dragon’s mouth carries more than fangs and their fangs more than venom. The Dark Mark on his forearm burns and he relishes it. Snakes think they know something of disloyalty, but they are merely sycophants to power, consumed by its fire. _A dragon is power._

What loyalty should he pay to the mimic of a dying bloodline too diseased to see the future?

He is no king. He is dead. He died the moment he broke a dragon’s father, the moment he slaughtered a dragon’s mother... the moment he spilled _her_ blood. Blood he deemed dirty. Blood that ran as her dragon’s. Red. Vivacious.

She’d been proud. Proud and bright and fearless. But she died alone. Without him. Cold and dark and screaming.

_His lioness._

He aches for her now, his heart severed and pounding against the cage of his chest. He is the calm waiting in the storm, the blade winking in the night. The promise of a reaper come calling. Hell hath no fury like a lover’s vengeance.

Her memory smiles at him, sunrise and rich cinnamon. He can taste her, the wet sweetness of her mouth, the heat of her flesh made feverish for him. Only for him. He can still feel her, like a summer ghost in the hot hours of the night. She was the reprieve from his nightmare, the soft giggling afternoon lost to the hellish echo chamber of war.

And so it ends. Here. Now.

His boots move noiselessly up the stone steps of the tower to the place it all began. Torch light flickers from the archway, green and absent a fire’s warmth. An unpleasant odor slinks down to meet him—corpses, murdered innocents. And… is that a hint of fear? It pulses around him, very much alive and spidering along the walls, ravenous in its desire to pollute the heart. Corpses cannot fear death, but the living can.

He grins. _Oh yes, you spiteful old serpent. You’re wise to fear me._

At the top, he finds him. Indeed, an old serpentine remnant of his former self. His liquid robes drown the frail glass bones of his body, skin bleached white and reptilian eyes glinting with dread. He knows better than to veil it from this dragon. After all, Dragons invented the game of misdirection.

_You do well to remember that… master._

“Draco.” A weak hiss.

“Dark Lord.” No need to bow anymore. His fingers curl loosely around his wand as he tilts his head, thoughtful.

The elderly fool even catches the glint of the hidden blade beneath his robes. _Good. I much like hands-on murder tactics. More personal…_

“You’ve a hungry look, boy. Dangerously hungry.” Skeleton fingers slip into the folds of his robe, seeking a wand.

Draco grins prettily, canines denting his lip. “You have a _timid_ look, Dark Lord.  Deliciously timid.”

The gaunt bubble of his Adam’s apple bobs, but he does little else, his wrist suspended in the dark confines of his robe. Draco bows his head until he is glaring up at him, face ghastly in the stark green lighting and eyes suddenly wide, blazing with hatred.

“You dare to buck me, boy?” A faint tremble.

“You dare to tame me, Dark Lord?” He scoffs, tapping his wand impatiently at his thigh. “You should have known the price…”

_Dragons can’t be tamed._

Laughter, empty in its attempt at composure. “From a cowardly boy to a traitor. Presumptuous. Much more than your father. I’m impressed.”

“No. You’re terrified.” Draco deadpans. “You took everything I’ve ever loved away from me. My father. My mother. _Her_.”

His lipless mouth rips open in a snarl. “Spare me, boy!”

Both wands lift at once, but neither fire.

“I’d an inkling you’d lost your way. Bellatrix was never certain because the girl refused to confess.”

“Bellatrix is dead.” Draco smirks cruelly. “She sang like a nightingale. Pity. Such a waste of good blood. Wouldn’t you say… _master_?”

A twinkle of fear, visceral, reflects in those reptilian eyes. “Yes. I’ve heard.”

“She should have left them alone. _You_ should have left them alone.”

His wand quivers, rage crackling the air around him. “You’re nothing but an abortion, boy! A monstrously aggrandized coward! Just as your father! A failure!”

“That’s funny. First you’re impressed and now I’m a failure.” Draco leers. “You know… Bellatrix muttered the same thing before I drove a dagger through her heart.”  

“How...! You are undeserving of the blood in your veins!”

Draco senses the attack before the old man’s wand ignites in splinters of green. He side-steps fluidly, hissing a disarming spell. It’s almost unfair how easy it is to neutralize him, disgusting really. Draco makes a face at the new wand in his hand. If only the quarry had presented a little more challenge. Bellatrix surely had. They all had. All but him. Draco’s silver eyes cut back to the haggard snake and he snaps the wand in half.

“Malfoy?” A gust of shivering breath. “Draco! I lied to you. You understand.”

“You? Lie? I’m shocked.” He advances, his wand raised again.

Shock twists that lipless mouth. “Wait! Hear me! I’ll… tell you where she is.”

He freezes.

“Yes. I lied, Draco. The Mudblood lives.”

_That word._

“You seek to make your torture that much worse, don’t you?” His chest rumbles with a deep-seated fury, vibrating him to his very bones. “Liars lie. I should know.”

“And you should know when a liar is truthful, or did you forget your father’s lessons?” A subtle shift of movement.

“Try it again and I’ll having you strangled by your own innards.”

“I tell the truth, Draco.”

It’s too good. Not real. She’s dead. He’d seen the place they tortured her, all the blood, the stink of shit and vomit. It can’t be true. Though sweet Merlin, he wishes it. He wishes it more than anything, but this is a trick. Only a trick. The fool is buying time to escape, or kill him. _As if he has the strength_ , Draco’s mind scoffs.

“You might want to save your breath. You’ll need it before I’m done.” Draco progresses forward until he is mere feet from those tattered rags.

“Only I know where she’s held in this castle!”

Draco clenches his jaw so tightly his teeth throb with pain. “Crucio!”

Whatever the bastard was going to say is gurgled out in a thick scream, unintelligible and sputtering. Black ripples writhe and jerk in agony and milky hands curl into fragile claws, bones protruding like alien pustules under his flesh, pulling and stretching the skin. His blood, like curdled swamp water, belches from his mouth and dribbles down his face. It reminds Malfoy of mud.

Mud Blood.

He grins, lowering the wand.

Riddle’s limbs slacken and he attempts to breath, but an onslaught of coughing spews even more of that muddy plague on the stone floor. It seeps into his robes, stains his flesh.

Filthy.

“I killed all of them right under your nose. Everyone loyal to you.”

Yes, trust the dragon. Believe him no more than a lowly snake. Cowardly. Slithering. The son of Malfoy, a dragon? Hardly. Yes. Trust a lie uttered between this dragon’s fangs.

“She—ives! Sh—“ His coughing becomes so violent that it looks like he chokes out his tongue, but it’s only more blood. “She… lives!”

Draco casts the unforgivable again and, this time, Riddle’s back snaps like a spring. There is the definite sound of a crack and the howl forced out of his mouth shakes the very walls around them. Draco watches with unforgiving eyes. So much blood erupts from Riddle’s mouth that the whole half of his face and neck are tainted brown. His eyes roll about his head like crazed compass dials, spinning and spinning and spinning. 

“Dra—“ he gushes, his face pinched and distorted. It’s odd how smooth his skin appeared before. Now, ugly mountainous ridges flank his mouth and melting crags drain into the hollows of his eyes.

“You’re the filthy one.” Draco presses the tip of his wand into Riddle’s cheek, new cracks and edges forming.

“Please!” he sobs.

He lowers his wand again and Riddle falls with a miserable wail.

“I like the sound of you begging.” Draco smirks. “Perhaps—“

“She’s in the Headmaster’s chambers!” His body sags, every word an agonizing blow to his broken back.

Draco’s lips fall open.

“I know the password.” He chokes, unable to stop the spasms down his spine.

“And what is the password, then?”

He attempts a snarl, but it comes out a whimper. “I won’t tell you.”

“Is that so?” Draco taps the wand on his thigh. “I’m sure I can coax it out of you.”

“I’ll be dead… by then.” He presses his cheek against the cool of the stone.

Possibility blooms in Draco’s chest even as he tries to thwart it. It spreads slowly, sweetly, like the calm summer vines of Morning Glories. She can’t be… _alive_. But Riddle is right. At this rate, he’ll be dead before he can work up the next good scream. It’s pathetic how pitiful he’s become. Once a savage Dark Lord, murderous. Now, only a speck of dust in this dragon’s shadow.

He knows, his watery gaze glittering and cunning. “You’re a smart boy, Draco.”

“And I’m sure you have some plan to kill me while I drag you there, yes?”

A broken grin, fangs still venomous. “I made you. I expect… no less.”

Draco sneers. “If you’d made me, I’d still be cowering at your feet.”

He gazes intently at Draco, satisfaction hardening those melted ravines of agony. “That desire in your heart. I gave you that.”

Draco hikes an eyebrow.

“Yes, boy, I forged you into the monster you are. _Me_.” His grin turns maniacal. “I suppose it’s enough.”

The desire to reach down his skinny throat and rip his spine through his teeth is strong, very strong, but Draco ignores it. Mind games. As weak as the old man’s attempt at inciting his anger is, Draco feels his blood boil, but he let’s it go. The bastard is a shattered and tangled mess on the floor. His army has crumbled and his most devout acolytes are rotting.

_A speck of dust…_

“She doesn’t have much longer.” He hisses in pain.

Draco’s heart skips a beat. This is all a ploy to lure him into a trap. It’s the safest and most logical explanation, but if what he says is remotely true— _remotely_ —Draco has to move. And with haste.

He jerks Riddle up by the throat, earning him a squawk of torment which he enjoys. The shriveled black mass is much lighter than he’d have thought and every tiny movement is punctuated by another slobbering wail. The journey down the staircase is pure anguish for Riddle and the subsequent hallways see him blubbering and bitching like an infant.

Most of the battle has leaked outside of the castle, leaving the exhaustive corridors deserted. There are leftover traces of it, of course: serrated bodies, charred walls, rivulets and splatters of blood. Unneeded death from an unneeded war. Toy soldiers fighting in this madman’s game while _he_ abandoned the battlefield long ago. After all the discourse about blood supremacy and here we are extinguishing it, like feeble flames in an airless tomb.

Yes, pure blood marks his hands, too. Such a stigma can’t just be washed away. War makes cannibals of us all, it seems.

At the gargoyle, Riddle finds the breath to finally speak, but it isn’t the passphrase. “I’ve already won this war. What I’ve done will resound through the ages.”

“You’ve destroyed what you professed to protect.” Draco drawls, fingers clinching down on his throat. “A new world will be constructed over your lesser bones.”

“I will be remembered.” He rasps against Draco’s grip. “Another like me will rise. He will hear my words and he will rise.”

“Yes.” Stories will be embellished that a snake was a dragon, but the truth will never make it so. “And you will be remembered as the fool who betrayed a Malfoy.”

“Your family name is gone. It perished the moment you sullied yourself with _her_.” Words are his final residue, the fading vestige of his venom. But they are futile. 

 _I didn’t come here intending to survive, you old fool. You’ll be dead the second you utter that passphrase._ Draco smiles with a deranged sort of kindness. “Password.”

Half-lidded eyes roll toward the menacing stone guardian. “Ave rex.”

As the gargoyle rotates, presenting the familiar set of steps, Draco jabs his wand into Riddle’s face, the Killing Curse racing to the tip of his tongue. Though, before he can enunciate the words a drab silhouette sucks all light from the corridor and his flesh goes cold. There are no eyes, but his heart knows the creature wants _him_. Riddle chuckles wetly from his side, but he can barely hear him. The world is a rush of icy air and slow rising seas. Dimming. Stopping. All is stopping.

His heart continues to beat defiantly in his chest, unwilling to succumb. The dementor extends one cadaverous hand, long fingers closing around his neck, and black rags swimming aside to reveal a gluttonous hole of a mouth. No proverbial light. No echoing song or sign of his lioness. Only a Dementor’s Kiss. It’s almost poetic, really. The problem is the snake still in his clutches. The bastard lives. If he could just cast the spell and be done with it, he’d gladly let the bloody wraith kiss him into oblivion.

Once Riddle is dead, it all ends.

“You’ll die as your father did.” Riddle murmurs somewhere below him, having slipped from his fingers. “The last relic of my war. You belong to me. You always have. Now, you always will.”

Draco attempts to lift his wand, but his movements are lazy, heavy with the world around him. Too late. He should have moved sooner. Despite Granger’s constant badgering, he’d not practiced casting the Patronus charm. He’d disregarded her concern over the likelihood of a situation just like this one. He should have listened.

Arrogance ultimately is a dragon’s Achilles heel. He gazes fixedly into the cavernous pit of its mouth as it inches closer to his own. Sounds ripple around him, faraway—voices maybe—and he feels it. The awareness of being drained, siphoned and stripped of what little joy he has left. Greedy tendrils reach into the deepest crevices of his soul, seeking and thorny, snagging and pulling. The cool bite of the wind on his broom. His mother’s regal face. His father’s young laugh. That godawful bossy tone and those splendidly smoldering eyes. Fire and honey. His life. His choices.

_Get a hold of yourself, Draco! Cast now!_

Her voice sounds so clear, so solid. His eyes flicker away for a moment, noting Riddle’s hunched figure, unmoving on the floor, and their eyes lock. The lipless mouth, a macabre smear of filth, cracks into a sickle grin.

Draco wills his arm to move, but the dementor inhales more fervently, causing a bone-rattling shiver down his spine. If he could just cast the Killing Curse. Just that and it will be enough. Lethargic fingers angle the wand, determined. It has to be now.

Riddle’s expression changes and his gaze fills with one final emotion. Fear.

Draco pulls what energy he has left away from the dementor’s grasp and directs it down through his fingers. He groans at the vicious tingle, like the burning of ice fire, as it exits his wand, slamming into Riddle’s chest and throwing him backwards. Dead.

_It’s done._

His wand drops from his hand, numbness creeping up his veins, engulfing him. His eyes flutter, raging pools of moon fire. They never dim. Of everything done in his life, this choice outshines them all. For once in his life… he’s carried out a choice worth making.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

A brilliant explosion of light, a falling star, or perhaps the birth of the world. _Probably all three_ , he muses. Then, he’s falling, sinking agelessly to a floor millions of lightyears away. He makes contact with a painful thump, but he barely notices. The stone is frigid, though something warm feathers along his cheek.

A puff of moist air. “Draco!” The voice is reedy and unrecognizable. “Draco! No! Come back! Draco!”

Small fingers trail his eyelids, his nose, his lips. They comb the wayward strands of blond from his face. Soft fingers. The clouds of oblivion dwindle away and a face materializes over him, heart-shaped and smudged. A trembling smile. Familiar eyes—halcyon pools of gold. His summer ghost. _His lioness_ _._

“Hermione?” He rasps.

She laughs, tears wetting her cheeks. “Oh my God! Draco!” Her arms fold around him and he desires to return the action, but his body won’t respond.

“You’re real?” he swallows thickly, his chest tight and his heart pounding.

“Yes.” She whispers into his ear, kissing his hair, his cheeks, his lips. “Yes, yes. I’m real.” She kisses him again and his mouth meet hers with equal urgency.

“How?” he asks against her lips. “The dementor?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” She cradles his face. “It’s over.”

“I thought you were…” He reaches for her, able to move at last. “I thought I lost you.”

She presses her forehead against his. “You’re lucky you didn’t. I thought I told you to practice your Patronus charm.”

Rolling his eyes, he spots his wand in her hand and chuckles. “You bloody know-it-all.”

She laughs and he captures her open mouth, recommitting every nuance of her to memory. She indulges him, gripping his shoulders, his hair. He pulls her into his lap, wanting to feel the solidity of her weight, her presence. She is real. She is alive and this long night is over. They hold one another until the early hours of sunlight tiptoe over the horizon.

Dragons are difficult spirits, selfish and independent, their loyalty hard-won and their pride often their detriment. Like all creatures, dragons are not immune to cowardice, or regret. They can believe a lie. They can follow a fatal path, kingly as they are. They are no hero, nor are they indestructible. They are flawed fierce beings with a hot beating heart. And this dragon has found he needs no throne, for a snake taught him deception, but a lioness taught him _honor_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: OMG! I love this piece so much! Very proud of it! I hope you enjoyed it as well! Thanks for reading!
> 
> INSPIRATION: Avenged Sevenfold, Ride or Die - Olivie Blake & The Wrong Strain - Colubrina
> 
> PLEASE REMEMBER TO REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW!!!


	7. From Blood to Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Type: Ficlet  
> Inspiration: Game of Thrones & Karliene's Let it End  
> Trigger Warnings: Blood, Gore, Major Character Deaths

* * *

 

Narcissa held the struggling girl with rigid arms, her eyes molten forges of ice fire and her hair golden streams of light over her shoulders. The room was silent, a tomb. Faces watched them, unforgiving animal faces of bloodlust and emptiness. Slackened lips, soulless eyes. All watched with but a quiet exhale of anticipation.

Her son stood before her—her precious son with hair of moonlight and a fierce silver stare. His father's stare. His expression was solemn, final. Blood trickled from his lips as he uttered to her, his voice gone flat and broken. His hands trembled at his sides and the ugly gashes rent through his cloak yielded glistening streams that seeped down to his boots.

It dripped to the floor.

It mingled with the blood of his beloved as she lay panting between them, her pregnant belly laboring with every breath. Her cinnamon tresses spiraled amid the red, her amber eyes dimmed, and her belly seeped as the head of a fountain, wasteful, so very wasted.

Narcissa's son knelt to his soul, reached for her, cradled her in his arms against his chest. Tears livened his eyes as she lifted her hand, grazed her fingertips to his face, fighting desperately for each breath, each treasured breath. Her chest faltered, shivering, and her hand fell away. The unborn child battled, beseeching its mother to breathe, but her chest never rose again.

"Hermione…" the tears fell freely now, marking her son's cheeks with anguish.

Narcissa watched as she succumbed to the throes of grief, her hand tightening on the hilt of the blade pressed to the girl's throat in her arms. "Draco." She groaned, her throat tight. "Run! Please run!"

The ugly dagger protruding from the girl's belly gleamed as some leering demon, mocking them both while it swallowed the last silent cries of the child. Her grandchild. Her son's child. Her blood.

Draco stroked Hermione's cheek, trails of scarlet smearing with his touch. "It's over." He murmured this so quietly and the room swallowed it from him, remorseless.

"Draco! Please! You can still live." She wanted to believe in her words. She wanted to believe her son could live. If nothing else, he could live. But she knew better.

Deep wounds grooved his chest and his skin had gone grey. The storming spark of his eyes had lessened until it was nothing. He looked unto his beloved as Narcissa looked unto her husband the day he left… never to return again. Never to walk with her, speak with her, hold her, or kiss her. Gone.

"Blood traitor!" someone hissed.

"Mudblood whore!" hissed another.

"Hang her corpse for others to see!"

"Hang them all!"

Draco pulled her flush to his body, dragging every part of her to him, holding her together, clinging to her. Hermione's expression, eyes closed and lips parted, appeared as if she were only sleeping. Narcissa opened her mouth to implore her son, but her heart wouldn't retreat from her throat. It hurt; a pain so deep it infected every crevice of her, down to the very marrow.

"Let my son go and I'll spare your ilk!" Narcissa snarled, but her voice was as brittle as winter.

"Kill the little whore. I've plenty more." The man sitting at his throne grinned, his lizard eyes unblinking.

Narcissa jerked her face away, defeated. "Draco! You can still fight! You must run! Please! My son! Run!" The last word was dragged from deep in her gut as a tattered moan.

Draco struggled to his feet, swaying dangerously, Hermione's head pressed to his crimson chest and what little blood was left in him had blossomed in his cheeks. "I can't—"

Suddenly, a flash of green slammed into him, lifting him off his feet, sending him and his beloved to the ground with a thud—the only sound in the room. All the wind left Narcissa's lungs. Hermione's body lay across Draco's, her hand oddly fastened at his neck in a tender caress and her head cradled near his jaw. Draco's face was blank, his snowy lashes framing open dead eyes. Her son was gone.

Narcissa screamed—howled—her skin crawling and her bones resonating with the sound. She dragged the blade cleanly across the girl's throat, cutting deep, so deep that the blood flowed like a river, a fountain. The body fell from her arms and her cerulean orbs trailed to her son, to Hermione. A valiant woman of lowly blood, but she lay with Draco just the same. His equal. His lover. The mother of his unborn child. Murdered. Their blood ran red. It would dry and blow as dust.

_Gone._

Her chest contracted, laden with the misery of loss, but she never looked away as the Dark Lord's wand pointed to her, his serpentine grin a blur of unimportance. _Take me. Let my blood turn to dust. Let the wind mingle us as one._

_Take me._

It was not the Killing Curse, but a secret dagger in her back that finally took Narcissa Malfoy. She fell to her knees, reaching for her children, her grandchild, a quiet smile on her face. _Let us be dust together. Family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE REMEMBER TO REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW!!!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Feedback is love!


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